I threw away the butt of my third cigarette and walked slowly across to the streetcar stop; I wanted to go home now. I felt dizzy: one shouldn’t smoke so much on an empty stomach, I know that. I quit looking over to where my former black marketeer was now carrying on a legitimate business. I really have no right to be angry; he made it, he jumped off, probably at the right moment, but I don’t know whether it’s all right for him to bawl out kids who are short five pfennigs for an all-day sucker. Maybe that’s all part of legitimate business; I wouldn’t know.
Just before my streetcar arrived, the bum walked unhurriedly along the curb again, in front of the ranks of waiting people, to collect butts. They don’t like to see that, I know. They would rather it wasn’t that way, but that’s the way it is …
I didn’t look at Ernst again until I was on the streetcar, but he glanced away and shouted, “Chocolate, candy, cigarettes, all ration-free!” I don’t know what’s wrong, but I must say I liked him better before, when he didn’t need to send anyone away who was short five pfennigs; but now of course he has a proper business, and business is business.
ON THE HOOK
I know it’s stupid. I ought to stop going there; it’s so senseless, yet going there is what keeps me alive. A single minute of hope and twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes of despair. That’s what keeps me alive. It’s not much; there’s precious little substance to it. I ought to stop going there. It’s killing me, that’s what: it’s killing me. But I’ve got to go, I’ve got to, I’ve got to …
The train she’s supposed to arrive on is always the same one, the 1:20 p.m. The train always pulls in on time—I keep a sharp eye on everything, they can’t fool me.
The man with the baton is always ready for me when I turn up; when he comes out of his little signal house—I’ve already heard the signal bell ringing inside it—as I say, when he comes out, I go over to him, he knows me by this time: he puts on a sympathetic expression, sympathetic and a bit scared. Yes, the man with the baton is scared; maybe he thinks I’ll go for him one day. I might at that, one of these days, I might beat him up, kill him, and dump his body between the tracks to be run over by the 1:20. You see, that man with the baton—I don’t trust him. I don’t know whether his pity is an act or not; maybe it’s just an act. He’s scared all right, that’s genuine enough, and he has good reason to be: one day I’ll beat his brains out with his own baton. I don’t trust him; maybe he’s in cahoots with them. After all, he does have a phone in his signal house—all he has to do is crank the handle and call them up—those railroad jokers get through in a second. Maybe he lifts the receiver, phones the last-but-one station, and tells them, “Take her off the train, arrest her; don’t let her get back on … What?… That’s right, the woman with the brown hair and the little green hat; yes, that’s the one, hold on to her”—then he laughs—“that’s right, that nut’s here again; we’ll let him wait for nothing again. Be sure you hold on to her, now.”
He hangs up and laughs; then he comes out, puts on his pitying expression when he sees me shuffling over to him, and says, as he always does even before I ask him, “Right on time again, sir, same as usual!”
This not knowing whether I can trust him is driving me crazy. Perhaps he grins the moment he turns his back on me. He always does turn his back on me and acts as if he had something important to do, like on the platform; he walks up and down, waves people back from the edge of the platform, finds all sorts of things to do that are quite superfluous, for the people step back from the edge anyway as soon as they see him coming. He’s just putting on a show, pretending to be busy, and perhaps he grins the moment he turns his back. Once I wanted to test him—I darted round in front of him and looked him straight in the face. But there was nothing there to confirm my suspicions: only fear …
All the same, I don’t trust him, those fellows have more self-control than our sort; they’re capable of anything. It’s a kind of clique that’s got strength and security, while we—the ones who wait—have nothing. We live on a razor’s edge, balancing from one minute of hope to the next minute of hope. For twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes we balance on the razor’s edge; one minute’s respite is all we get. They have us on a tight rein, those fellows, those jokers with their batons, those stinkers, they call each other up, exchange a couple of words, and our life is down the drain again, down the drain again for twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes. They’re the ones who run the show, those bastards …
His pity is an act, I’m quite sure of that now. When I really think about it, I have to acknowledge that he’s double-crossing me. They’re all crooks. They’re holding on to her; I know she meant to come, she told me so in a letter: “I love you, and I’m coming on the 1:20 p.m.” Arriving 1:20 p.m., she wrote; that was three months ago, three months and four days exactly. They’re keeping her back, they don’t want us to meet, they begrudge me the chance of ever having more than one minute’s hope, let alone joy. They’re preventing our rendezvous; somewhere or other they’re sitting and laughing, they’re all in it together. They laugh and call each other up, and that stinker with the baton gets paid, and well paid too, for telling me day after day, in that mealy-mouthed way of his, “Right on time again, sir, same as usual!” Even the “sir” is an insult. No one ever calls me “sir,” I’m a poor down-and-out bastard who lives on one minute of hope a day. That’s all. No one ever calls me “sir,” shit on his “sir.” They can do it to me backwards but they’ve got to let her go, let her get back on that train; they’ve got to give her to me, she’s mine; didn’t she send me a telegram, “I love you, arriving there 1:20 p.m.”? “There” means where I live. That’s what telegrams are like: you write “there,” and you mean the town where the other person lives. “Arriving there 1:20 p.m.” …
Today I’m going to do him in. I’m about ready to blow my top. My patience is exhausted, my strength too. I’m at the end of my tether. If I see him today, he’s had it. It’s been going on too long. Besides, I’ve no more money. No more money for the streetcar. I’ve already sold everything I own. For three months and four days I’ve been living off capital. I’ve sold the lot, even the tablecloth. I can’t kid myself anymore—today there’s nothing left. There’s just enough for one streetcar ride. Not even enough for the return trip, I’ll have to walk back … or … or …
In any case that bastard with the baton will be lying down there between the tracks, a bloody mess, and the 1:20 will run over him, he’ll be wiped out, just as I’ll be wiped out this afternoon at 1:20 … or … Christ!
It’s really too much when you don’t even have money for the return trip; they make things too hard for a man. The clique sticks together; they control hope, they control paradise, consolation. They’ve got their talons round everything. We’re only allowed to nibble at it, for a single minute a day. For twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes we have to hanker after it, lie in wait for it; they even refuse to dole out the artificial paradises. And they don’t even need them; I wonder why they hang on to everything? Is it just for the sake of the money? Why don’t they ever give a man money for booze or smokes, why do they put such a terrible price on consolation? They keep us dangling on the hook, and every time we bite, every time we let ourselves be pulled up to the surface, every time we breathe light, beauty, joy for one minute, some bastard laughs, slackens the line, and there we are back in the dark …
They make things too hard for us; today I’m going to get my revenge. I’m going to take that stinker with the baton, that outpost of security, and dump him between the tracks. Maybe that’ll give them a fright, sitting back there by their phones—Christ, if only a fellow could frighten them, just once! But you haven’t a chance, that’s the trouble. They hold on to everything: bread, wine, tobacco, they’ve got the lot, and they’ve got her too: “Arriving there 1:20 p.m.” No date. That’s the trouble: she never writes the date.
They’re jealous because I might have kissed her. No, no, no, we have to perish
, suffocate, despair utterly, go without consolation, sell everything we own, and when we’ve nothing left we have to …
For that’s the terrible part about it—the minute is shrinking. I’ve noticed it the last few days: the minute is shrinking. I think it may be only thirty seconds now, perhaps much less, I don’t even dare work out how much really is left. Yesterday, anyway, I noticed it was less. Up till then, whenever the train came in sight round the curve, black and snorting against the city’s spreading horizon, I was always conscious of being happy. She’s coming, I used to think, she’s got through, she’s coming! I would go on thinking that the whole time, till the train came to a halt, the people got slowly out—the platform gradually emptied … and … nothing …
No, then I wasn’t thinking that anymore. I must try above all to be honest with myself. When the first people got out and she wasn’t among them, I wasn’t thinking that anymore, it was all over. That happiness—it wasn’t that it stopped sooner, it began later. That’s how it was. One must be honest and objective about it. It began later, that’s how it was. It used to begin when the train came in sight, black and snorting against the city’s spreading horizon; yesterday it didn’t begin until the train had come to a halt. When it had stopped moving altogether, when it was just standing there, that’s when I began to hope; and when it was standing there, the doors were already opening … and she didn’t come …
Now I’m wondering whether that lasted even thirty seconds. I haven’t the nerve to be quite honest and say: It’s only one second … and … twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes, and fifty-nine seconds of black darkness …
I haven’t the nerve; I can scarcely bring myself to go back there; it would be too horrible if not even this second were left. Are they going to take that away from me too?
It’s too little. There are limits. A certain amount of substance is needed by even the lowliest of creatures, even the lowliest of creatures needs at least one second a day. They mustn’t take this one second away from me; they’re making it too short.
Their callousness is assuming terrible forms. Now I don’t even have the money for the return trip. Not even for the fare straight there and back, let alone transfer, as I have to. I’m short exactly a nickel. Their callousness is cruel. They’ve even stopped buying. They don’t even want to buy things now. Until now they’ve always been screaming to buy things. But now their greed has become so appalling that they’re sitting on their money and devouring it. I really do believe they devour their money. I wonder what for? What do they want? They’ve got bread, wine, tobacco, they’ve got money, everything, they’ve got their fat women—what else do they want? Why have they stopped shelling out? No money, not an ounce of bread, no tobacco, not a drop of schnapps … nothing … nothing. They’re forcing me to extreme measures.
I shall have to take up the struggle. I’m going to finish off that outpost of theirs, that bastard with his baton and his pitying expression, he screws me every time he talks to them on the phone! He’s in cahoots with them, I know that now for certain, because yesterday I listened in on him! That bastard’s double-crossing me, I’m sure of that now. I went much earlier yesterday, much earlier, he couldn’t have known I was there; I ducked down under the window and waited, and sure enough!—he cranked the handle, the bell tinkled, and I heard his voice. “Superintendent,” he said, “Superintendent, something’s got to be done about it. The fellow can’t be allowed to go on like that. After all, the security of a civil servant is at stake! Superintendent,” his voice implored—that bastard really was scared stiff. “That’s right, Platform 4b.”
Very well, so now I’ve got proof. Now they’ll take drastic measures. Now they’re really going to finish me off. Now it’s a fight to the finish. At least the position is clear. I’m glad of that. I shall fight like a lion. I’ll run down the whole lot of them, herd them all together, and toss them in front of the 1:20 …
Not one thing are they willing to let me keep. They’re driving me to desperation; they want to rob me of my last second. And they’ve even stopped buying. Not even watches—till now they’ve always been keen on watches. All I got for my books was three pounds of tea—two hundred pretty nice books at that. I imagine they were pretty nice. I used to be very interested in literature. But three pounds of tea for two hundred books—what a lousy deal; the bread I got for the sheets and pillow slips was hardly worth mentioning, my mother’s jewelry gave me enough to live on for a month, and you need such a tremendous amount when you live on a razor’s edge. Three months and four days is a long time; a fellow needs too much.
As a last resort there’s always Father’s watch. The watch has a certain value. No one can deny that the watch has a certain value; perhaps it’s enough for the return trip; perhaps the conductor has a kind heart and will let me ride back in exchange for the watch; perhaps, perhaps I shall need two tickets for the return trip: Christ!
It’s twelve-thirty and I must get ready. That doesn’t involve much, nothing at all really. I just have to get out of bed, that’s all there is to getting ready. The room is bare, I’ve sold everything. A fellow has to live, after all. The landlady has taken the mattress for a month’s rent. She’s a good sort, a really good sort, one of the best I’ve ever met. A good woman. A fellow can doss down perfectly well on the wire springs. No one knows how well you can sleep on wire springs, if you sleep at all, that is; I never sleep, I live on capital, I live on one second’s hope, on the second when the doors open and no one comes …
I must pull myself together; the battle’s about to begin. It’s a quarter to one, the streetcar passes at ten to; that’ll get me to the station on the dot of quarter past, onto the platform by eighteen past; when that joker with the baton comes out of his signal house, I’ll be just in time to let him tell me, “Right on time again, sir, same as usual!”
The bastard really does say “sir” to me; everyone else he just bawls out, shouting, “Hey you there—get back from the edge of the platform!” To me he says “sir”! That just shows: it’s all a big fake, a horrible big fake. When you look at them, you’re tempted to think they’re hungry too, that they’re all out of tea or tobacco or booze; the expression on their faces is enough to make you almost want to sell your last shirt for them.
A fellow could cry for years over the big fake they put on. I must try to cry; it must be wonderful to cry, a substitute for wine, tobacco, bread, and maybe even a substitute for when the single solitary second is extinct and all I have left is twenty-four naked, entire hours of despair.
I can’t cry in the streetcar, of course; I must pull myself together, I really must pull myself together. They mustn’t notice anything; and at the station I’ll have to watch out. I’m sure they have people hidden somewhere. “After all, the security of a civil servant is at stake … Platform 4b.” I’ll have to be damn careful. It makes me nervous the way the conductress keeps looking at me. She asks several times, “Tickets?” looking only at me. And I really have one; I could pull it out and hold it under her nose, she gave it to me herself, but she’s forgotten already. “Tickets?” she asks three times, looking at me. I blush, I really do have one; she moves on, and everyone thinks: He hasn’t got one, he’s cheating the transit company. And all the time I’ve given up my last twenty pfennigs, I’ve even got a transfer …
I must watch out like hell; I very nearly ran through the barrier, like I always do; but they might be standing around anyplace. As I was just about to dash through, I realized I didn’t have a platform ticket, or a nickel. It’s seventeen minutes past, in three minutes the train will be in, I’m going crazy. “Take this watch,” I said. The man looks insulted. “For God’s sake, take this watch.” He pushes me back. Their excellencies the ticket holders are staring. There’s no help for it: I have to go back; it’s seventeen and a half minutes past.
“A watch!” I shout. “A watch for a nickel! An honest watch, not a stolen one, a watch that belonged to my father!” Everyone takes me for a nut or a cri
minal. Not one of those bastards will take my watch. Perhaps they’ll call the police. I must find the bums. The bums will help me at least. The bums are all down below. It’s eighteen minutes past, I’m going crazy. Am I to miss the train today of all days, the very day she’s going to arrive? “Arriving there 1:20 p.m.”
“Hey, buddy,” I say to the first bum I see, “give me a nickel for this watch, but quick, quick,” I say.
He stares too—even he stares. “Listen, buddy,” I tell him, “I’ve got one more minute, understand?”
He understands—he misunderstands, of course, but at least he tries to understand, at least it’s something to be misunderstood. At least it’s a kind of understanding. The others understand nothing.
He gives me a mark; he’s generous. “Listen, buddy,” I say, “I need a nickel, get it? Not a mark, understand?”
He misunderstands again, but it’s so good to be at least misunderstood; if I get out of this alive I’ll hug you, buddy.
He gives me a nickel as well, that’s how the bums are, they give a bit extra and at least they misunderstand.
The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll Page 15